The Wind Beneath His Wings
by javert's sister
Summary: Faramir, fighting in Ithilien, is wounded and close to death. Can Boromir reach him before it is too late? A Fanfic based on the song 'Wind Beneath My Wings'.
1. Chapter 1

FThe Wind Beneath My Wings

It must have been cold there in my shadow,

To never have sunlight on your face

You were content to let me shine

You always walked a step behind

So I was the one with all the glory,

While you were the one with all the strength

A beautiful face without a name

A beautiful smile to hide the pain

Did you ever know that you're my hero

You're everything I would like to be

I can fly higher than an eagle

For you are the wind beneath my wings

It might have appeared to go unnoticed

But I've got it all here in my heart

I want you to know I know the truth

I would be nothing without you

Did you ever know that you're my hero

And everything I wish I could be

I can fly higher than an eagle

For you are the wind beneath my wings

Did I ever tell you you're my hero

You are everything I wish I could be

I can fly higher than an eagle

For you are the wind beneath my wings

You are the wind beneath my wings.

(RyanDan Song)

Boromir was watching Faramir, who was curled up under a blanket in the Ranger camp at Henneth Annun. The blanket was obviously a thin one, for the younger man was shivering violently. Boromir stood up, and gently laid his own cloak over the blanket, and spoke gently to the sleeping man. "You know, Faramir, I don't think anyone but me actually knows how strong you are. You are the strong one in this family, not me. All Gondorians know of my victories, but they don't know that you are the one responsible for their safety, day in, day out. You are the one who prevents bands of orcs from destroying their homes, almost every day, the one who takes down Haradrim and mumakil to protect them. They only hear about you when something has gone wrong, when a party slips through. They only know about the mistakes. They don't know the lengths you have gone through to defend them, they don't know that you are lying here, close to death from a poisoned dagger, taken to save the life of one of your rangers. And yet you always stand just behind me, out of the lime light, in my shadow and shade, letting me take the glory for your deeds, supporting my endeavours while no one supports yours, but for a small band of men. But really you are my sun, you are what causes my shadow, the source of all my supposed greatness. Not even Father knows. He would doubtless berate me for being here now, saying that standing here was doing you no good, and that our men need to see me in the field, for I am their sign, their banner. But, Brother, you are my banner, my sign. The wind beneath my wings. My hero."

A/N – Following the majority of reviews, I have expanded this into a longer story. It will hopefully be around 10 chapters long. I hope you enjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Three days before…

Faramir pulled the last arrow from the corpse with a grunt, sickened by the work he was compelled to do, and angry that supplies were so short that every spent arrow had to be carefully located and reused. He looked down at the man at his feet, guilt and triumph warring in him. The man was an enemy, a member of the force of Haradrim who had entered Gondor to raid farmlands and villages, and he had killed one of Faramir's Rangers, and yet he was just a man, perhaps pressured to fight against his will. Faramir sighed, and turned away. He raised his voice, just slightly in case there were further Haradrim parties in the area. "Half of you, collect the bodies and pile them by me; the rest, stand watch. We must not give the enemy proof that their scouts have been slain, so we must bury them."

A soft groan came from the men. The ground was hard this early in the year, and digging a mass grave would be hard, punishing work. Nevertheless, the men, working in pairs, began to drag bodies to where Faramir had indicated, for they knew he himself would join in the grisly work beside them. Faramir had won their loyalty and respect through his humility and his rule that he would never ask his men to do something that he himself would not. He had shaped this band of men, who before had seemed to be the outcasts and misfits of the army, into a unit to be proud of. It was their very nature as outcasts that made them such effective Rangers, and Faramir's leadership which gave them the will to try. He was not a typical leader, but they were not typical soldiers, and for him they would go into the very fires of Mount Doom itself.

Mablung and Faramir were hefting a particularly muscle-bound Haradrim into the deep grave that had been dug when a soft hoot sounded to their right, the signal for enemies approaching. "Another raiding party", Faramir groaned. He and his men were already weary from the skirmish and the grisly labours which followed.

"No rest for the wicked", Mablung grunted. Further animal sounds followed, giving information on the numbers and position of the enemy. The Rangers gathered silently around their captain, awaiting his orders. Before he could give any, however, a scream came from where the sentry had been posted, and a rush of orcs followed. The Haradrim scouts had been accompanied by an orc band, it seemed.

There was no time for a detailed plan, it was merely instinct that led the Rangers to hold their position, while those with bows employed them with the deadly accuracy for which the Rangers were known. Orcs fell, howling, as arrows found their marks, but for every one that went down, another rank appeared behind. The arrows were soon spent, Faramir noticed, cursing again the lack of supplies which constantly beset his Rangers. "Draw swords!" He yelled, his voice carrying easily to all the members of his small band. With a rasp, 30 blades were withdrawn from their scabbards, and 30 men sucked in breath to cry, as one, "For Gondor!"

Then the orcs were among them. Their fetid breath carried on the air as the men fought desperately. The odds were relatively even in terms of numbers, but the Rangers were already weary. Faramir sliced his sword at the head of the orc facing him, only to have it parried with a jarring blow. They struggled for a moment, then the orc's weapon slipped and Faramir was able to raise his sword and bring it down through the orc's skull until it lodged in the creature's fangs. He tried to pull it out, but it was jammed in too deeply.

"Faramir!"

The yell came from Damrod, the youngest of Faramir's rangers. He threw a sword to his captain, who managed to catch it neatly, and in one motion use a reverse stroke to gut an orc who had thought him to be easy prey without a weapon. The orcs were now outnumbered, and the Rangers fought fiercely to despatch those that remained. Soon there were none left standing, though the number of Rangers was also diminished. Faramir walked slowly through the carnage, looking to give ease to those of his men who needed it, and he came to rest at the side of a Ranger who lay wheezing, with blood and fluid leaking from his ears and nose. The man was dying, clearly, yet he still had the strength to grasp his captain's proffered hand in a grip of iron.

"My children, Captain. They will have no one now. My wife passed years ago… they will be alone. My lad is old enough to look after himself, but my girl…" His voice failed him, but he looked beseechingly at Faramir, who felt a lump form in his throat.

"They will be provided for, Rodgil. I swear it." Faramir had promised this same thing to all of his men who had fallen in battle, and to his credit he had never yet rescinded upon this oath. Many of the children and other dependents of his Rangers received pensions from Faramir's own purse, or had been given employment in the household of the Steward.

"My son…wants to be a Ranger too… let him serve you, Captain…as I have done."

Faramir nodded, not trusting his voice any longer. Rodgil had been a Ranger for longer than Faramir had been alive, and his death would leave not only his family but also the Ithilien Rangers bereft.

"Captain!" It was as close to a shout as the dying man could manage. Faramir spun round in time to see an orc, who had been feigning death, fling itself at the wounded man, it's teeth bared in final snarl. Through the intervention of the gods, Faramir managed to get his sword up in time to block the strike at Rodgil's head, but he could not avoid the dagger that the orc thrust with its left hand into his own thigh. He roared in pain, and swung his sword down and across, severing the creature's windpipe. As the orc fell, dead before it hit the ground, Faramir noticed that Rodgil had spent his last breadth to warn his captain, and a lump rose unbidden in his throat. He had saved him, only for the man to die anyway. Another good man lost to Gondor.

Other Rangers had seen the commotion, and Damrod came immediately to his captain's side. "Are you injured, Sir? I thought I saw the orc thrust a dagger?"

Faramir nodded, and felt his leg begin to buckle beneath him. He quickly sat, before he could fall, stretching his long legs out before him and making the dagger still embedded in his leg plain to see. Damrod looked concerned, and with good reason. Orc weapons were often filthy, and not necessarily deliberately so. Orc were not known for their personal hygiene, after all.

"I need you to remove the dagger, Damrod. The longer it is in there, the more likely that blood poisoning will set in. I don't think it has hit any major blood vessels. Don't look around for help, man, none is coming, and you are the closest thing we have to a healer, so please, make it quick."

Damrod nodded reluctantly. His father had been a village healer, and had tried to persuade his son to take up his trade, but Damrod had been far more interested in practicing with his bow and scrapping with the other boys in his village, and had in fact sent several to be patched up by his father when boyish enthusiasm had gone a bit far. The other Rangers enjoyed teasing the young man, and called him 'master healer' to bait him when the mood needed lightening. He did remember the fundamentals, however, so he steeled his nerve and grasped the hilt of the dagger, and pulled it free from his captain's flesh as gently as he could. Faramir still had to stifle a scream, and he was not entirely successful. Next Damrod poured some of the water from his canteen over the wound and cleaned it as best he could, though he was not certain that it was good enough, but there was nothing else he could do but bandage the wound, and ask for water to be boiled so that a willow bark tea could be made for Faramir to take the edge off the pain.

Unnoticed in the frenzy of the proceedings that followed in the wake of the skirmish, a messenger from Minas Tirith had arrived on the scene. As Faramir looked up from his willow bark tea, grimacing at the bitterness, he noticed the man, who stood out as clearly from his Rangers as night from day. He was clearly the Steward's own messenger, as he wore a livery with the White Tree emblazoned on the chest, and compared to the men around him who were splattered with mud, blood and fouler things he looked pristine. Faramir beckoned him over, and as he came closer recognised him, and put a name to his face.

"Well Lothrung, I am surprised to see my father's personal messenger here. Why does the Lord Steward risk you so, in sending you so far into the wilds?"

"Captain Faramir, the Steward has instructed me to bring you this message: you are to attend him as soon as is convenient, as he has urgent matters to discuss with both you and the Lord Boromir."

"What Lothrung means by 'convenient' is 'immediately'. My father does not like to be kept waiting. Anborn, I need you to lead the men back to the Refuge. Damrod, you will come with me, as I may need you healing 'expertise' on the journey. There is to be no rest for the wicked, indeed."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

"Captain, I think you should reconsider."

"Well, Damrod, luckily this is the army and I, a captain, do not have to take into account what you, a sergeant, think."

The pain was making Faramir fractious, and Damrod knew that, and so did not take offence at his words. The willow bark tea was beginning to lose what small effect it had, and there was no time for a fresh batch to be brewed. The Steward's messenger was pacing nearby, impatient to be on the road, despite the obvious problem in the form of a knife wound in the thigh of the man he had been sent to summon before the Steward.

There were still preparations to be made before the captain of the Rangers could leave his post, however, so the messenger would just have to wait. Faramir would not leave his men until he was sure that they were prepared to face anything that might happen in his absence. Anborn was a capable man, and intellectually Faramir knew that the Rangers would be in good hands, but the pain did not allow for clear thinking. Thus Damrod may have had a point when he questioned whether Faramir was fit to travel the quite considerable distance to the White City, but a command could not be ignored. Faramir had learned this, to his cost, once before when Denethor had summoned him and he had believed it was more important to secure some newly reclaimed territory. The Steward had not seen it that way, and the penalty had been severe. He still bore the scars. He had no desire to repeat the experience, and so must make this journey by necessity, no matter that his wound throbbed. He could place weight on the leg, and would use a staff for support, and so the journey would be possible, if unpleasant.

"I am sorry, Damrod, I should not speak to you like that. I know that you are concerned for me, but believe me, it is better to answer this summons. And you will be with me, 'master healer', to care for my wound, so what could possibly go wrong? Anyway, the best healers are all in Minas Tirith, so surely if there are any problems with the wound I will be in the best of hands."

Damrod grunted noncommittally. He still thought his captain was wrong, but knew from the set of his shoulders that he was determined on this and would not be swayed. He did not even protest at the use of his hated nickname.

The matter settled, Faramir turned his attention to issuing last orders to the Rangers, and particularly to Anborn. "We will meet seven days hence at Henneth Annun, once you have scouted the rest of the circuit and we have returned from Minas Tirith."

Anborn spoke quietly to him. "Captain, will you speak to the Steward about the supplies. We cannot protect Gondor with no arrows, and we need food as well if some are not to starve during the winter. We can forage well enough for now, but soon the animals will disappear as the snows set in."

Faramir nodded, well aware of the privations that his men suffered, and that he suffered with them. "Fear not, Anborn, I will. My father shall hear of the conditions we face, and my brother also. I hate to rely on him to feed my men, but I put the welfare of my Rangers above my pride. I shall pass through Henneth Annnun on the way to the city and make an inventory of the necessities."

Faramir's face softened as he talked of his brother. The bond between the two was known to all of Gondor, and none more so than the Rangers of Ithilien, who had, on several occasions, been saved from almost certain starvation by the timely arrival of the Captain General and a load of waggons bearing the necessities of life.

"Thank you, Sir. May the gods grant you a swift journey and a speedy return."

Anborn saluted, and Faramir turned to where the messenger waited. The man was mounted on a sturdy gelding, but the Rangers had no horses, so Faramir and Damrod would be compelled to walk until they reached an outpost where there was a pool of horses kept for the use of messengers. Damrod looked chagrined that the messenger would not give up his horse for his wounded captain, but close inspection of the man suggested that they would make better time if Faramir walked, even with his wound, rather than Lothrung, who did not look fit enough to sustain hours of walking in harsh conditions.

"We are ready now, Lothrung. Shall we depart?"

Without pausing to see if an answer was forthcoming, Faramir and Damrod strode quickly on, forcing the messenger to kick his horse into an ungainly trot in their wake.

Several hours later, and the wound in Faramir's thigh felt like fire. They had made good time for the first two hours or so, as Faramir had forced himself to keep up, but for the last five miles the pain had got worse and it was willpower alone now that was keeping him upright. Damrod had seen the deterioration in his captain's condition and had done his best to clear the way for him, but he could see that soon they would have to stop.

As if reading his sergeant's mind, Faramir shook his head, and stumbled as he did so. He caught himself on the staff he was using, and spoke softly, so the messenger could not overhear. "We cannot stop yet, Damrod. This area is not safe. A few more miles and we will be near Henneth Annun. We can blindfold Lothrung and rest there for the night. I will be better by morning and we can continue on then. We have made good enough time so far that the Steward will not notice the delay."

He made it sound almost like a question, another indicator of the pain that he was in. They continued walking, with Lothrung riding ahead, seemingly half-asleep in the saddle.

With no warning, a solitary Haradrim broke through the bushes a little to the side of the horse, making it buck and rear in panic. Its rider was thrown, and landed awkwardly. Faramir and Damrod heard the snap as he landed, but could not divert there attention from the enemy to look to see if the man stood up. Damrod placed his body in front of Faramir, prepared to defend his captain with his life.

"Stay back!" He cried, levelling his sword at the Haradrim, who appeared not to hear him. His round brown eyes took in the two men before him, and the one still lying prone on the ground, and clearly did not fancy his chances alone against the tall dark-haired soldier, and so he turned and vanished into the bushes, disappearing almost as silent as any Ranger. Damrod made to give chase, but Faramir stopped him.

"Wait, Damrod. We cannot follow him yet. Both Lothrung and I are in need of help now, and it is not safe for you to go alone. We must continue on to Henneth Annun." Faramir indicated Lothrung. "If we get him on the horse, and I ride behind, we should be there before nightfall. We can alert the other Rangers there as to the presense of a Haradrim, seemingly alone, and they will deal with him."

He knelt, trying to assess what injuries the messenger might have. There was a fast developing bruise on his temple, and his left wrist hung at an odd angle. Damrod knelt beside him, and lifted the man's shoulders.

"Sir, if you lift his feet we should be able to lay him across the horse. It will not be dignified, but he is less likely to fall."

Faramir did as Damrod suggested, and then mounted behind, with Damrod holding the still-nervous horse's bridle. "It would be best if we reached shelter as soon as possible, sir." Damrod said. "I will run alongside, so we can travel quicker."

Faramir gave the horse a nudge with his heels, and it started off in a trot, which Damrod was able to keep pace with easily. Lothrung, still unconscious, bumped along with the horse's rythem, while each movement jolted the wound in Faramir's leg, though he carefully schooled his features so that Damrod would not see his pain.

Only a few leagues further on, a sudden change came in Lothrung's condition. He began to shake uncontrollably, forcing Faramir to stop the horse, dismount and remove the quivering man from its back, so it would not be spooked again. He laid the messenger on the ground, knowing they would not be able to continue until the fit stopped.

Just as Faramir thought the shaking had lessened, a particularly violent thrash caught the foreleg of the horse, which had crept closer in curiosity. It was more from shock than pain that the horse reared again, and caught Faramir a solid blow to the thigh, the same thigh as the dagger wound. He gave a strangled cry, and dropped to the ground.

For less than a moment, Damrod stood conflicted, unsure whether to run to his captain or detain the horse which looked about to bolt. He found his common sense and lunged for the bridle of the horse, for he knew that without its help he would not now be able to get Faramir to safety. He tied the reins to the branch of a tree, and knelt at Faramir's side. His captain's face was blanched from the pain now, and he seemed to be having problems focusing on Damrod's face.

"I think we are in trouble now, 'master healer'", he mumbled, before his eyes closed in a faint.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

For the second time in a short space of time, Damrod stood conflicted. His captain lay unconscious before him, another man was also injured, and there was no way to bring them both to safety at the same time. Had Faramir been awake, he would doubtless have insisted that Damrod take Lothrung to safety first and then return for him later; that was the kind of selfless man that Faramir was. Damrod, however, considered his captain's life to be of the upmost importance, and so made the only decision he could. He quickly placed his cloak under Lothrung's head and wrapped the man's own cloak around him, then bracing his knees and legs he levered Faramir into his arms, and heaved him, with a grunt of effort, over the horse's saddle, before mounting himself behind him.

He nudged the horse into a walk, not daring to go faster in case he exacerbated Faramir's wounds. The Refuge was not far off, and what medical supplies the Rangers had were kept there, along with a few who knew something of the healing arts. Damrod tried to keep this at the forefront of his mind, for he knew that his own skills in that area where not sufficient to deal with Faramir's injury now. He could feel the heat radiating off the man before him, and knew that the fever was doubtless caused by infection in the wound. He fought the urge to increase the pace, as Faramir would only suffer more if the wound was jogged and jostled. He shut his eyes in a quick prayer to the gods. _Let us reach the Refuge soon, let us reach the Refuge._

With that as a mantra, Damrod concentrated on finding as smooth a route as possible into Henneth Annun.

The alarm had been sounded in the Refuge as Damrod approached. Other Rangers had been there to help ease Faramir to the ground, and a party had been sent to retrieve Lothrung. Since that time Faramir had been examined by Valborn, one of the men at the Refuge who had some knowledge of healing. When the bandage around his thigh had been unwrapped, many of those present had to fight the urge to be sick. The wound was purple at the edges and pus-filled, while the area around was a dark-red, a stark contrast to Faramir's usually pale skin. Without doubt, the orc-dagger had been poisoned, whether by accident or design, and that poison was now coursing through Faramir's blood.

Valborn had shaken his head sadly. "I do not think there is much we can do. A wound this badly infected is usually fatal. Had I seen him immediately after the wounding I might have been able to save him, but the poison has travelled too far."

Damrod had refused to give up on his captain though. He had remained at Faramir's side, renewing cooling compresses and cleaning the wound with salt-water, the only antiseptic available. One of his first acts was to send a party of Rangers to find the Captain-General, for he knew that Boromir would wish to be present, no matter the outcome, and another party to Minas Tirith, more specifically to the Houses of Healing, as he knew that with the care of an expert healer Faramir would not survive.

Lothrung was also demanding the services of a proper healer. The messenger had been brought back to the Refuge, still unconscious, but he had swiftly recovered from his head injury, though his complaints indicated otherwise. He was unable to be in the vicinity of Damrod without glaring daggers at the man; he believed he should not have been left behind, and had made this clear almost as soon as he had woken up.

"Anything could have come across me in the forest! That Haradrim filth might have returned, I might have died. I am the Steward's most trusted messenger and you left me to die!"

It took all of Damrod's resolve not to floor the man. How dare he insinuate that his life was more important than Faramir's? That Faramir would have agreed with him did not lessen Damrod's anger. He could almost hear Faramir's self-deprecating words. _I am only a second son, while he is a trusted messenger of the Steward of Gondor. Certainly his life takes precedence over mine_. Gritting his teeth, he replied "I did what I thought was right under the circumstances. The Haradrim had run from us, and it was still light so I did not think you were in any danger from wild beasts. And you are here, are you not? So no harm done."

That had not appeased the man, and it seemed there would always be an enmity between them. That was not a pressing concern for Damrod, however. His only worry at present was for Faramir, who lay in a small cavern off the main cave, the sweat of his fever matting his black hair, and his grey eyes moving restlessly under closed lids. Damrod did not like to think what his captain might be dreaming of. Faramir had seen enough in his short life to cause nightmares even when he was not raving and riddled with fever. He sometimes mumbled words, most of which were indecipherable, but the name 'Boromir' featured prominently. Damrod prayed silently that the men he had sent would find the Captain-General, and bring him here in time, if only so that Faramir's passing could be made easier by the presence of the one he loved most in the world.

"Captain-General, there is a patrol of men outside who would speak to you, if you are not otherwise engaged. They are of the Ithilien Rangers and say they bear urgent tidings regarding Lord Faramir."

Boromir had only been half-listening at the start of Ciran's speech, but the words 'Ithilien' and 'Faramir' immediately demanded his entire attention. He had been seated at his travelling desk, with the post-dawn light seeping through the tent, writing a report to send back to the citadel, easily the most tedious part of being a commander, and so the distraction was welcome, even if Ciran's tone did sound ominous.

"Show them in at once, please, Captain."

Ciran dipped his head, opened the tent flap and ushered in three men, dressed in the mottled green and brown of the Rangers. All wore sombre expressions, and Boromir felt his heart leap into his throat. Whatever news they bore, it certainly was not good. One stepped forward, an older man with greying dark hair, and dark blue eyes. He saluted and then spoke.

"My Lord, we bring bad news. Captain Faramir has been injured. It was thought at first to be a minor wound, but it has poisoned his blood. Sergeant Damrod instructed us to inform you, and escort you to Henneth Annun, if you wished to come. He also sent a party to Minas Tirith to summon a healer, if anything can be done." The man's voice trailed off, making it clear that there was not much hope that anything could be done.

Boromir had been standing stock still as the man reported, but when he finished he burst into a frenzy of activity. He threw a cloak about his shoulders, buckled his sword at his hips, and fired questions at the Ranger.

"How long since he was injured, and how long did it take you to find us? Are there no competent healers at Henneth Annun? No, do not answer that one, I know full well that no healer could be persuaded to serve there. Always the Rangers are left under-provisioned. I should be more insistent with the Steward, but my brother never complains, so we do not always know how dire the situation there is. What is your name, man?"

"I am named Daeron, my lord. Captain Faramir was injured in a dawn skirmish two days ago, some leagues from Henneth Annun, but managed to reach the Refuge that day, though the journey took a heavy toll on him. We set out almost immediately to find you, in the evening, two days ago. It has taken us a day and a night to find you, stopping for only short rests. It should take us less than a full day to escort you to him."

Boromir nodded. "Then let us leave immediately. Ciran, in my absence you command here. Oh, and there is a report on my desk for the Steward. If you would not mind completing it, I would be grateful." He almost smiled. If his brother were not in danger, Boromir would have been glad for this excuse to leave his paperwork to another. The gods knew he was a born soldier, but reports and briefings were the bane of his life.

With that, he strode from the tent, trailing the Rangers in his wake, still issuing orders to those around, commanding horses and provisions to be readied. Action was his element, and a way to hide the concern that he felt.

The preparations to leave took very little time, and soon the small group of men were riding fast, the pace being set by Boromir's desperation and the Rangers' obvious eagerness to return to their Captain also. Boromir took this as a sign of how much Faramir was valued by his men, a fact which touched his heart. He had thought, once, that Faramir was unsuited to military life, but it was clear that his brother was a born leader, if an unorthodox one. He only hoped now that the Rangers would not lose their beloved Captain so young.

True to Daeron's words, it took them slightly under a day to reach the Refuge.

"Sir, we shall have to blindfold you here, in accordance with our orders."

Boromir readily agreed. Anything to see Faramir as soon as possible. He was led deftly and swiftly, and when the blindfold was removed he was in the main cavern of Henneth Annun, looking into a smaller alcove where his younger brother lay.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

Boromir was shocked by Faramir's appearance. He knew that his brother had been wounded, but he had still expected him to be his usual vital self. He had not expected to find this corpse-like figure. His brother lay still, his chest barely moving as he breathed. The slashes of red across his cheekbones were the only proof that he still lived, and that he was burning with fever.

Boromir rounded on Damrod. "Has his wound not been tended to at all? Someone in this gods-forsaken cavern must have some healing knowledge!"

To his credit, Damrod did not quake before his captain-general's ire. "We have done the best we can, sir." He offered no excuse, despite the fact that Faramir had hidden the severity of his wound very well and had continued to exert himself when the prudent thing would have been to rest.

Boromir looked contrite when faced with Damrod's unflinching honesty. "I know you did, Damrod, forgive me, I am concerned for my brother, that is all."

Damrod nodded. "As am I, sir. But the only thing we can do to aid him is keep him cool, until the healer summoned from the city reaches us."

Boromir looked torn. "According to the laws of the Steward, no healer should have been sent for. It would jeopardise the security of Henneth Annun. But he is my brother! I cannot accept that his life is worth less than keeping this place a secret. I am glad you sent for a healer, Damrod. I only hope he makes it here in time."

"So do I." Silence descended between the two men who held Faramir dearest. Boromir knelt by the side of the bed roll which constituted a bed in Henneth Annun and gripped his brother's hand in a grip which, had Faramir been awake, would surely have caused him to wince in pain. Damrod remained standing a respectful distance away, gazing at his captain as if the strength of his stare alone could heal him.

It was the late watches when Boromir finally conceded that his presence was not going to magically cure his brother, after gentle persuasion from Mablung, and not so gentle, from Damrod. He stood shakily, his muscles protesting from his long vigil. He gazed down at Faramir, who was curled up under a blanket. The blanket was obviously a thin one, for the younger man was shivering violently. Boromir gently laid his own cloak over the blanket, and spoke gently to the sleeping man. "You know, Faramir, I don't think anyone but me actually knows how strong you are. You are the strong one in this family, not me. All of Gondor knows of my victories, but they don't know that you are the one responsible for their safety, day in, day out. You are the one who prevents bands of orcs from destroying their homes, almost every day, the one who takes down Haradrim and mumakil to protect them. They only hear about you when something has gone wrong, when a party slips through. They only know about the mistakes. They don't know the lengths you have gone through to defend them, they don't know that you are lying here, close to death from a poisoned dagger, taken to save the life of one of your rangers. And yet you always stand just behind me, out of the lime light, in my shadow and shade, letting me take the glory for your deeds, supporting my endeavours while no one supports yours, but for a small band of men. But really you are my sun, you are what causes my shadow, the source of all my supposed greatness. Not even Father knows. He would doubtless berate me for being here now, saying that standing here was doing you no good, and that our men need to see me in the field, for I am their sign, their banner. But, Brother, you are my banner, my sign. The wind beneath my wings. My hero."

With that he turned away, clapped Damrod on the shoulder, and strode out into the main cavern. Since he was here, and there was nothing he could do for Faramir directly, he would do want Faramir would have wanted, and check on the Rangers and the state of the supplies in Henneth Annun. What he found scandalised him. How did the Rangers live like this? How had he, the Captain-General of Gondor, been so unaware of the privations that they faced? Of course he had known that things were hard here, at the farthest corner of Gondorian control and so close to Mordor, but he had not known how hard. He had not known, for example, of the half-rations that the Rangers had been on, or the fact that all available blankets were already being used, leaving none spare for even colder weather which was on its way as winter deepened.

He made a silent vow to broach the matter with the Steward. Surely anyone who had once led troops into battle would be outraged at the privations here. All troops ought, for example, to have access to a healer. If there had been a healer at Henneth Annun perhaps his brother would not be lying as he was now, barely breathing.

Boromir did not know, however, how close a competent healer was.

The tall man strode wearily on. He knew his vague location, somewhere in Ithilien, but the land had changed since he had been here last. The pall of Mordor lay more heavily than it had done when he was last here. Game had become scarcer, and the very earth seemed to be trying to escape from the evil which sloughed from that dark country. Experienced hunter as he was, the man had been unable to track and kill anything in over a week, and his supplies were running perilously low. Who would have guessed, when he had set out on this search, that it would have been so profitless.

The man sighed. There was nothing for it. He would have to seek the aid of the men of these parts. He had seen them before, concealed and from a distance, and they had seemed to be honourable, though not trusting of strangers. Yet if he was to avoid starvation he would have to take his chances. He knew of the existence of their camp, through overhearing a conversation, but did not know of its exact location. All he could do was to continue on, and hope that a patrol found him, and did not decide to shoot first and ask questions after.

"Sir!"

The shout raised Boromir from his reverie. He was again kneeling at his brother's side, clasping his hand as if he could pour his own health into his brother through touch. He did not recognise the voice, so it was clearly one of Faramir's men that he had not met yet.

"Yes, Ranger?"

When he got no immediate reply he stood and turned towards the entrance to the main cavern. The Ranger who had hailed him was standing there, as were three others. One, however, was blindfolded and flanked by the other two. Boromir looked to the leader of the group for an explanation.

The Ranger, however, merely stared at Boromir for a few seconds, then seemed to gather his wits. "Your pardon, my lord. I though Captain Faramir was there."

"Clearly. Unfortunately, Captain Faramir is injured, and unable to command at present. But you may tell me your report."

"Yes, sir. We were on patrol, sir, and this man walked into our camp. Our sentries noticed nothing, he just strode right in! He seemed to know all about us, and asked to be taken to our headquarters."

"Which you did?"

"Yes, sir. We know of the Steward's decree, that no stranger may know how to enter the Refuge, so as you can see we blindfolded him and brought him here. We thought that Captain Faramir would wish to question him as to his knowledge of our doings."

"Indeed. Well done, Ranger. I will question him instead. Bring him to an alcove, and then leave us, though please post a guard outside."

"Yes, sir."

As Boromir's orders were carried out, he set himself to study the man. His blindfold had not yet been removed, so he could not see his eyes, but his hair and his height proclaimed his ancestry clearly enough. Here is another man descended from Numenor, Boromir thought. He himself removed the man's blindfold and bade him sit on one of the empty crates that served as a chair for the Rangers.

"So, stranger, who are you, and what are you doing in these lands? Few venture here in these dark days without some desperate purpose."

"My name and business are my own, my lord, but you may call me Gilthoron. Suffice to say I was travelling in these lands, and running low on supplies and so decided to seek the aid of the Rangers of Ithilien."

"If you are looking for supplies, you have come to the wrong place. The Rangers have barely enough for themselves."

"I can see that now. But, my lord, perhaps I can do something to earn any supplies you feel could be spared. You see, I am a healer, and I heard you speak of an injured man. I will, of course, attempt to help him, even if no supplies can be spared, but I am in desperate need."

Boromir raised an eyebrow. At first appearances there did not seem to be much of the healer about Gilthoron, but now that he looked closer he could discern a thoughtfulness behind his movements, and certainly his long, slender hands looked like they might belong to a healer. Still he deliberated. What if this was some ploy of the enemy, to strike at the Captain of the Rangers while he was down? Yet somehow Boromir knew this man was not of the enemy. He could not say how he knew, it was usually his father or his brother who received such premonitions, but still, he knew. Even the man's name seemed familiar.

"If you feel you could help, I will allow you to treat Captain Faramir. You will still be under guard, however. We cannot simply allow a stranger to wander around this Refuge. And we will see about what supplies can be spared, if and when we decide to let you go."

Gilthoron nodded his head in acquiescence. "I accept. Take me to Captain Faramir."

Faramir's continued ill state was a worry to Gilthoron. He had treated the infection in the man's leg, and the other minor scrapes he had received during his skirmish with the Haradrim and the orcs. They were all healing well, apart from one small scratch across the forearm. This was inflamed and red and yet so small that it was easy to miss. He delicately smelt the scratch, drying to detect what was the cause of the inflammation. A sickly sweet smell rose from the wound.

"Poison," Gilthoron growled to himself. "It has to be. But what type of poison? Orc or Haradrim?"

He turned to Damrod, his current sentinel. In fact, Damrod was his almost constant guard, and yet Gilthoron knew it was not he being guarded. The man barely left Faramir's side, Gilthoron had noticed. Such a level of devotion spoke volumes about Faramir, and made Gilthoron all the more determined to save him, if he could.

"Can you remember how Captain Faramir came by this scratch, sergeant?"

"I can't say that I can. Perhaps on the journey here? In fact, it must have been then, for I myself attended to his injuries at first and I do not remember treating that one. Though of course I may have overlooked it, it is so small."

"Hmm," was all that Gilthoron said. He determined to ask the other healer present at the Refuge, Valborn, if he had noticed the scratch.

"Will you take me to Valborn? I would like to ask him the same question."

Damrod agreed quickly, and escorted the man, whom he had come to admire, to Valborn, after arranging for Mablung to stand guard over the Captain in case he should take a turn for the worse.

Valborn was quickly located in the central cavern, where he was varnishing his bow. With no preamble, Gilthoron strode up to him and asked "Do you remember seeing a scratch on Captain Faramir's left forearm when you treated him?"

Valborn looked somewhat put out to be so peremptorily questioned by the man who had taken over his care of the Captain, and who was a stranger to boot.

"As a matter of fact I do recall seeing, and treating, that scratch. It seemed to be minor so I merely bathed it in salt water and left it. I imagined Sergeant Damrod had already treated it."

"I had not, because it was not there to treat." Damrod burst out. Gilthoron merely shrugged, and began to walk back towards the alcove where Faramir was lying. When they were in the relative privacy of the curtained off area, he turned to Damrod.

"So that confirms that the scratch was inflicted on the journey here then. Can you tell me if anything happened on that journey, anything that might result in a poisoned scratch?"

"There was an incident…a lone Haradrim stumbled upon us, and caused the horse that Lothrung, a messenger from the Steward, was riding to rear. Lothrung was thrown, had a fit, and scared the horse further, and the Captain was kicked. I cannot remember specifically if anything scratched him, I am afraid."

"Lothrung? I have not met him. Perhaps he can shed some light on the incident, though if he was unconscious as you say then maybe not. Nevertheless, let us ask him." Gilthoron turned to his patient. "But first, I need to change Captain Faramir's bandages. It would do no good for us to discover the truth of the scratch only to find his other wounds were worse."


End file.
